Coming Home
by rslhilson
Summary: A car crash and a choice. Set sometime in Season 5, with spoilers for 4x16: Wilson's Heart. Technically Wilson/Amber with pre-House/Wilson, but depends on your brand of goggles. Oneshot.


_Coming Home_

**Warning: **Kinda-sorta character death, but not really...

* * *

><p>It's cold, Wilson realizes, when you're dying.<p>

He could've told you that the body's temperature decreases, but he's only now learning how quickly the sensation hits you, how fully _aware _you are of the bone-chilling numbness that courses through your veins. For someone who's spent his career on the battlefield of death, it's almost laughable how little he actually knows.

He can hold patients' hands and comfort their families as the monitors flatline, but whatever happens after your heart stops beating is still a mystery to Wilson. He isn't House; he isn't obsessed with unanswerable questions and the frustration of the unknown. In the movies, they say that it's like coming home, and like any normal person too afraid to come to terms with his own mortality, Wilson had always just believed that to be true.

And yet, here he is. He doesn't remember exactly _where_ he is or how he got here, but coming home has never been so scary and painful, and cold. He wonders if Amber was this cold, too, when she was dying.

Then the memories start to trickle in – slowly at first, but they're coming back. He remembers how hot and sticky it was in the beginning, how everything was a blur and all he could think was that the oily red mess was ruining his clothes. He'd just picked them up from the dry cleaner's yesterday, and it was going to be a bitch to have to drop them off again.

And then the world had slowly come into focus, and there was honking and sirens and someone yelling "_Jesus_, Wilson!", and he hadn't needed the blue eyes hovering over his line of sight to know who it was.

He remembers that the pain came next, searing black pain tearing through his entire body as an "Oh, _shit_" ripped out of his throat. And now everyone is shouting about glass and bones and God knows what else, and all he wants to do is go home.

_Home, _Wilson realizes then. _I was going home._

He'd laugh at the irony, if his mangled body were up for it. Life's funny like that, the way nothing's ever quite as it seems. If you're not careful, you won't be prepared for the surprises that are lurking around the corner – surprises like divorce papers and infarctions and bus crashes, and strangers with blue eyes who bail you out of jail. Usually House is the one who deals with it all, because he doesn't need the intense preparation that Wilson does.

Only tonight, Wilson wasn't prepared, and now he's paying the price. It doesn't matter that he'd been driving his Volvo like always, and House had been following alongside on his motorbike like always, and all either of them had wanted to do was get a beer. It doesn't matter that the only reason he hadn't yet clicked his seatbelt shut was because he'd wanted to untuck his stupid shirt first in an attempt to relax.

He should have been prepared for the drunk asshole who swerved into his path. He should have been prepared when he'd jerked the wheel to the left to avoid hitting House. He should have been prepared because now he's somehow ended up with half of his body dangling out of his car, broken.

He's James Evan Wilson. He's prepared for _everything._

"You _stay_ with me," Wilson hears, and the neurons in his brain flicker as he vaguely identifies House's words as a command, not a suggestion. "Wilson, you _stay_ with me_._"

Wilson's trying, he really is. There's a lot he hasn't done yet, hasn't said yet. Another thing he's learning is that it doesn't just hurt when you're watching someone _else_ die – it hurts just as much when _you're_ the one who's abandoning your friends. God, there's so much he needs to say. He needs to tell House that he'll be okay, as long as he doesn't give up on life just because life has given up on Wilson. More than anything, he needs to tell House that he's sorry. He's dying and he's leaving House behind, and he's so, so sorry.

But it's cold. It's really, really cold and Wilson can't even breathe.

He only wants to go home.

There's a moment, just before his eyes close on the view of House's panic-stricken face, when he's sure he can feel the gentle brush of her hair against his cheek.

And when he wakes again, House is gone. There is no ambulance, no battered car, no blood soaking through his clothes. Wilson quietly observes the empty bus, noting how pure and white it is – how warm it is. The mode of transportation is a bit of a surprise, but who needs to be carried on angel wings, anyway? It only seems logical that if dying is the equivalent of going home, one ought to simply hop on for a heavenly bus ride.

The probable retorts that House would have thrown at him leave a pit in his stomach, so he stares out the snowy window into nothing as he tries to ignore the fact that House is gone.

Correction: _Wilson _is gone.

But when she sits down beside him, it's as if he's had it all wrong. He's not on his way to Heaven; he's already there. It's here, right here in her smile and in her eyes. Dying really is a little bit like coming home.

"Hey," Amber murmurs, leaning in to brush his lips with hers, and if his heart were still beating he's sure it would have stopped. "I've missed you."

He lets himself become lost in absorbing the taste of her kiss, and in her fingers intertwining perfectly with his own. It would be perfect, really, if it weren't for the fact that he's dead – that they're _both _dead.

As if she can read his mind, she smiles and soothingly runs her fingers through his hair. "It's okay," she whispers. "You're one of the lucky ones, James. You get to make a choice."

It takes a few moments for him find his voice. "Amber…"

"You have to choose," she repeats, gently interrupting. "You're already running out of time." Her smile is gone, and as the light fades in her eyes he realizes that she's serious.

"What kind of choice?" he asks at length.

Her voice still a soothing, tender melody, she steadily holds his gaze. "You need to choose between life," she says softly, "and death."

And the bus screeches to a halt.

* * *

><p>"This is it," Amber says, gesturing to the open front doors. "Take it or leave it."<p>

Wilson shakes his head, his brow furrowed in utter confusion. Is death always this complicated? "I don't understand."

"It's simple." She offers him a shrug and a small smile, as if to illustrate how very straightforward it really is. "You can get off here, or you can stay on the bus."

He nods his head forward, prodding her. "Meaning…?"

"_Meaning_, you can have a real life out there, or a life of death here with me."

A life of death. Jesus.

Amber leans back into her seat, her head drifting onto her shoulder as she gazes up at him. "You're lucky you get to even make a choice, you know," she says.

Wilson swallows. "I guess you weren't one of the lucky ones."

"No," Amber agrees quietly. "I wasn't."

"Why not?"

She ignores his question for the moment. "House was," she says instead.

"What are you talking about?"

"He was here. He came here, the night that I died."

Wilson shakes his head. "He couldn't have. That's impossible."

Amber doesn't answer, instead lifting her eyes to look out the window. Wilson turns to follow her gaze, and the frosted glass melts into a dark, silent vision of concrete and blood. They've moved his body out of the car, but it looks like they've given up. He watches as House shouts something to an EMT, refusing to stop pumping air into Wilson's lungs.

"That's…me," Wilson manages at last.

Amber nods. "So you see how you might be on a bit of a tight schedule here."

Wilson turns back to her. "I don't understand. House was here, on this bus? Was he with you?"

"The DBS," she explains simply, and then it clicks.

"You gave him a choice."

"Yes. Well, not me, exactly. But yes."

"And he chose to get off the bus."

The look in her eyes answers for her. Wilson, suddenly exhausted, rubs a hand over his face.

"He should've stayed," he says tiredly. "He wouldn't have been in pain here."

Amber nods. "And he didn't want to see you angry with him."

Guilt clenches Wilson's stomach into a sickening fist. "But he still came back."

"And you can do the same."

Wilson shakes his head. "It's completely different. He didn't…I have _you _here, Amber."

"You don't need me, James," Amber replies gently.

"Of _course _I do! How can you even – "

"No one gave me a choice." Her eyes are glistening, and Wilson can hardly bear it. "I know it's because I wasn't _near_ death, I was actually _dead_…but I think, even if I'd had a chance, the choice wouldn't have mattered."

"Don't say that," Wilson pleads, but Amber shakes her head.

"You don't need me, not in the way that matters."

"Amber, stop it. I _love _you."

"I know you do, James." She pauses to kiss him on the lips, her fingers trembling against his cheek. "But it isn't the same."

He opens his mouth, trying to find a counterargument, but when the words fail him he finds himself glancing out the window again, watching House continuing to fight for him.

"You needed each other that night," Amber murmurs gently in his ear, "even though you walked away. None of that has changed. If it had been him in my place, would you have survived it?"

Wilson doesn't know. Or maybe he does, and he just won't say.

Amber nudges him again. "Time is running out."

One of the EMTs has his hands on House's shoulders, trying to pull him away. Eventually another joins him, and it won't be long before they succeed in dragging him from Wilson's body.

The bus begins to rumble.

"It's now or never," Amber whispers. "Make a choice, James."

And Wilson does.

* * *

><p>House can't help but be amused by Morphine Wilson.<p>

It doesn't exactly feel right, after all that's gone down. But after running strictly on caffeine and Vicodin for an ungodly number of hours, he's entitled to finding a little humor in Wilson on drugs.

"This is nice," Wilson is saying drowsily, a loopy grin on his face. "Drugs are nice."

House snorts, shifting into a more comfortable position in the visitor's chair that has basically become his ass's second home. "This better mean you'll stop with your self-righteous rants against _my_ habit."

Wilson dismisses him with a wave of his hand. "Silly. I've always accepted you."

House rolls his eyes, but his typically somber manner doesn't stray far. Morphine Wilson may be a good source of blackmail in the future, but even that doesn't make up for the reality of just how shitty this is.

His memories of the past few days in the hospital become eclipsed by the sounds and sights of that night – the sirens, the blood, being torn between keeping Wilson alive and punching the EMTs straight to hell.

He glances towards Wilson again. "What was it like?" he asks quietly.

"You're no stranger to painkillers," Wilson points out.

"I mean the part where your body practically broke in half through your windshield."

Maybe it's the drugs, but Wilson doesn't seem fazed. "Hurt like a bitch," he comments mildly. "Is this where you lecture me about the importance of seatbelts?"

House has certainly considered it, but he figures Wilson's learned his lesson, and that's not really why he's asking. "Seeing as it was technically the other guy's fault, and seeing as I barely wear _mine_…no."

There's a pause as Wilson thinks further. "You just want to compare our near-death experiences, don't you," he realizes.

House's silence answers for him, and at length Wilson gives in.

"It was cold," he shrugs, "and scary as hell. And I sort of thought it wouldn't be, because..."

His voice trails away, and House finishes for him. "Because you thought oncology would prepare you."

Wilson shrugs again. "I don't really know what you're looking for, House," he says, sounding tired.

House isn't really sure what he was looking for, either, but apparently this is all he's going to get. "Boring," he sighs. "Go back to sleep."

"Sleep," Wilson echoes, looking amused. "Thought you said I've been sleeping like a big baby for days."

It's true; House did say that. He just hasn't mentioned the details – the multiple surgeries, the hours that were touch and go, not knowing if Wilson would walk again or even if he'd be _Wilson _again.

Wilson doesn't remember any of those things, or the way that they'd held hands the first time his eyes had managed to flutter open. It's better that way.

"Sleep anyway," House says. "Dreaming on morphine's gotta be a fun time."

"Actually…" Wilson scrunches up his nose in thought, and House forces himself not to smile. "I think I dreamt about a bus."

Now _that _could be interesting_._ "Heading somewhere?"

Wilson's expression suddenly grows solemn. "Yeah," he says quietly. "Death."

"Nice metaphor," House grunts.

"Amber was there."

That's when House freezes. "What?"

"Amber," Wilson repeats, nodding as he remembers. "Yeah. We were on a bus, and she was telling me to get off."

Normally House doesn't care about stupid stuff like this, except that he's had the same dream – a dream he's allowed himself to forget until now. "Why was she telling you to get off?"

"I don't know," Wilson shrugs. "Maybe it was the bus that crashed."

"Maybe." House digs deeper into his memory, trying to uncover the faded pieces that he'd pushed aside as unimportant. He remembers the basics – sitting on the bus with Amber, having to decide whether or not he wanted to stay for the ride – but the details elude him. "And you got off?" he asks Wilson, trying not to seem like he's thinking as hard as he is.

"I think so," Wilson muses, then grins again at House. "You're lucky I'm all drugged up," he says, wagging a finger at him. "Since when do you care about my dreams, anyway?"

"Focus, Wilson. Why did you get off the bus?"

"Because she told me to?"

"But there must have been a deeper reason."

Wilson furrows his brow in concentration. "I think I _wanted_ to stay," he says at last. "It was nice."

"And she was there," House reminds him.

"And she was there," Wilson agrees. "I _wanted_ to stay with her. But then…" He glances back at House, his eyes unreadable. "But then I didn't."

"Why not?" House presses.

"I think…I think I knew that as nice as it would have been to stay, I also knew that it wasn't home."

House remains quiet as his own memories of the bus return, flowing swiftly but gently back into his consciousness. His cane, previously swinging like a pendulum between his hands, comes to a halt.

For a moment, he considers telling Wilson, but it doesn't seem like the time.

"Can I ask why you suddenly care so much about my dreams?" Wilson asks.

House shrugs, taking a deep breath as he pushes the now-clear remnants of his conversation with Amber back to the recesses of his mind, where they belong. "No reason. It was an interesting dream."

Wilson chuckles. "You're _always_ interested for a reason, House. But I'm too high and tired to care."

House's own lips quirk, but he keeps himself in check. "Go back to sleep, Wilson," he says again.

Wilson shakes his head. "Don't want to dream about the bus."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

House just…knows. The problem is, he's not quite sure _how _he knows. But between his lack of sleep and the cortical real estate dedicated to Wilson's now-burgeoning medical file, he just doesn't have the energy to care. Instead, he says, "Because the bus dream is special."

Wilson doesn't look convinced, but obediently he closes his eyes and shifts into a more comfortable position in the bed. "I think _you're _special, House," he murmurs sleepily.

"Yeah." House reaches out, as if to touch his cheek or stroke his hair, but on second thought, he pulls away.

"Why is the bus dream special?" Wilson whispers suddenly, his eyes still closed.

"Because it is," House replies quietly. What more is there to say?

Wilson seems to think for a moment before opening his eyes to meet House's gaze. "You've had it too, haven't you," he murmurs.

House re-checks the morphine dosage, and despite his previous reservations, he supposes it's safe to come clean. "Looks like it."

"And you got off the bus."

House nods, and Wilson smiles a little.

"I'm glad you did."

"Me, too."

"I'm not going to remember any of this, am I?" Wilson muses.

House can't help but concede a smile of his own. "Let's hope not."

Wilson sighs, closing his eyes again. "I hope you'll remind me."

"You wish."

Sleep is already drawing Wilson into its hold. "It'd be a nice…memory…after everything that's happened," he mumbles.

House waits until Wilson's breathing evens out before he leaves to find some food and steal a pillow from another room, squeezing Wilson's hand as he stands and heads for the door.

Maybe he'll remind him, and maybe he won't.

He'll see how he feels when he can finally take Wilson home.

* * *

><p><em>Fin<em>


End file.
